


Dogpile

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons doesn't get why Grif keeps tackling him all of a sudden, but it's getting really annoying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogpile

"Hey, Simmons!"

"What?" Simmons starts to turn, catching a blur of orange moving towards him out of the corner of his eye as he does. "Oh hell no -" he begins feelingly, and then Grif’s tackling him with all the force of a small truck.

Simmons goes down before anyone can yell so much as a timber, all the breath rushing out of him as he’s slammed into the ground. "Get the fuck off," he wheezes, winded and shoving at Grif, who's still on him goddamnit, deceptively heavy Simmons' half-metal ass; Grif's every bit as heavy as you'd expect from a guy whose primary food group consists of oreos and oreos alone, and who also just so happens to be wearing a half-ton of fucking assault armour.

"Whoops, sorry," Grif says, not sounding sorry at all, and also not actually getting off Simmons. "Thought I saw something."

"So you thought you'd fucking bodyslam me into the ground?" Simmons hisses, shoving at Grif to get off but to no avail, it's like trying to push a boulder off, or some other immoveable object. "Nice job, asshole. You saved me from all the scary trees. What, did that spot of foliage look shifty to you or something?"

Grif starts to reply, but is cut off by Sarge, who'd clearly deciding to investigate all the yelling.

"Simmons?" Sarge's voice calls. "Grif? What the hell are you two doing? Lying down on the job? Can't say I'm surprised to find Grif slacking off, but Simmons, I'm disappointed in you, boy!"

"Sorry, sir!" Simmons tries more urgently to shove Grif off. "I wasn't slacking sir, honest! I'm just on the ground because Grif says he thought we were under attack and -"

"Attack?" Sarge's voice rises. "We're under attack? Get down, you two!"

"No, we're -" Simmons begins, but is cut off the impact of yet another heavily armoured body slamming on top of him. "!" Simmons gasps wordlessly, knocked flat on his back for the second time in as many minutes.

Grif groans. "Wow that really fucking hurt."

"You're telling me, asshole," Simmons says, glaring futilely inside his helmet.

"Are we still under attack?" Sarge asks, from somewhere above Simmons.

“We’re not fucking under attack!” Simmons snarls, before realising it’s his superior officer he’s snapping at. He winces, tries again. “We’re not under attack, sir.”

“Those Blues realise they were outclassed, eh? Yeah, they’d better run,” Sarge grunts, in victorious satisfaction.

“Er,” Simmons says, diplomatically. “Actually, we were never under attack, sir. Grif,” he jerks his knee up into Grif’s body, eliciting an _oophf_ of pain, “was just being an ass. Again.” 

“Hey, we could have been under attack,” Grif protests. “I see how it is. Next time I’ll just let you get your sorry ass kicked.”

“Maybe I’d believe you if this wasn’t the fourth time this week you’d tackled me into the ground,” Simmons hisses, wondering yet again why it is Grif's suddenly decided it would be hilarious to tackle his team mate into the ground at random times.

Grif’s face is hidden by his visor, but Simmons doesn’t need to see him to tell the other soldier’s smirking. “What can I say? I’m just looking out for the well-being of my team mate.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says sardonically, “because you’ve always been so concerned with my well-being.”

“So,” Sarge says, clearing his throat. “Just to clarify; we’re not under attack.”

“No sir,” Simmons says, with a sigh, "we're not under attack."

“Honest mistake,” Grif says cheerfully.

There’s the slam of metal striking metal, a pained yelp, and Sarge growling, exasperated, “God damn it, Grif! If it were possible to demote you any further, I would!"

“So are you guys going to get off me?” Simmons asks, hopefully, still crushed against the floor and rendered mostly immobile. “Like, any time today would be great.” He winces as he shifts, trying to get comfortable and something in his body gives an ominous crunche.

"I don't know," Grif says, lazy amusement colouring his voice. "I'm actually pretty comfortable right now." If anything he seems to get heavier as he speaks, draped over Simmons like a particularly heavy cat.

"Well, good for you asshole," Simmons says, exasperated, "but I'm pretty sure my internal organs are being pulverised by this."

"Nonsense," Sarge says briskly. "Maybe if you hadn't been upgraded, but don't forget, you've got superior robotic parts for innards."

"Oh yeah, lucky me," Simmons says; thankfully the sarcasm seems to just fly over Sarge's head.

"Still," Sarge continues, "can't keep lying around on the job, no matter how unexpectedly comfortable you've turned out to be, Simmons. Clearly, Grif's laziness is dangerous and contagious. Which supports my decision to normally keep him always at least one shotgun length away from me." Grunting, Sarge levers himself to his feet, and Simmons takes in a grateful, slightly deeper breath as some of the weight is lifted. "On your feet, soldier."

"Five more minutes," Grif says, helmeted head tucked over Simmons' shoulder.

"I don't think so," Sarge says grimly, and Grif yelps.

"Ow! You didn't have to kick me," Grif says reproachfully.

"I said get up!"

"Well, well, well." An unexpected voice joins the conversation. "Look what we have here. It seems there's a cuddle pile in progress and _someone_ did not get an invite."

"Oh shit," Simmons says urgently, craning his neck and groaning as he gets the expected glimpse of pink. "It's Donut! Grif, get off me!"

"Aw, shit," Grif sounds as just as dismayed and starts to disentangle himself from Simmons.

"This is a military unit, Private Princess!" Sarge snaps. "We do not cuddle!"

"Aw," Donut says in a friendly voice. "No wonder you're always so uptight, sir! Research shows that humans need at least five friendly touches a day to stay emotionally healthy!"

"Emotionally what now?" Sarge sounds offended by the implication that he has emotions. "Son, enough of this New Age, hippy-dippy bullcrap. We're soldiers! The only touch we need is a firm but loving grip on our primary firearm, or a strong and sure grasp on our enemy's neck!"

"Or a hug!"

"Grif," Simmons pleads, shoving at Grif's chest. The other soldier has got upright at least, but is still sat heavily straddling Simmons' hips, moving with a sluggish lack of speed. "Hurry up! Please! Donut's talking about touching."

"Oh, I'm trying," Grif grumbles, "but I was less than a minute away from falling asleep there, and you know it takes me a little while to get moving after I've settled down."

"You're always this fucking slow!" Simmons snaps, trying to sit up and break free.

"Well what can I say?" Grif shrugs, "I'm always prepared for a nap."

" - this is for your own good, sir."

Simmons and Grif only have time to shoot each other an alarmed look as they catch the tail-end of Donut's talking.

"Get off me, you no-good -"

The ground shakes as Sarge crashes down again, Donut's delighted whoop of joy following as another body joins the pile.

Simmons whimpers pitifully.

"My kidney," Grif whines, pressed painfully close. "I think it just ruptured."

"You mean my kidney, you jerk," Simmons snarls, wheezing. "And there were two when I gave them to you."

"Now, now," Donut chides, from somewhere above them in the pile. "Let's not fight. Let's just enjoy the moment."

"Moments over," Sarge growls, trying to move. "Damnit!" He curses as he slowly extracts himself, shaking Donut off his back like some hapless kitten. "It's an endless tangle of limbs. if only I had my trusty machete to hand..."

Everyone gets up a lot faster after that.

 

"Jesus fucking christ," Simmons mutters in disgust later that day, pressing his palm over the bruising on his ribs, the mottled purple livid against the pale skin of his right side. He's taken a time-out from yet more guard duty to retreat to his room, wanting to investigate exactly how bruised Grif's antics have left him. "That fucker. I'm putting him on a diet. Asshole gains any more weight and next time he's actually going to crush me."

"You try putting me on a diet and I will crush you," Grif informs him, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

"Jesus!" Simmons jumps about ten feet in the air and clutches his chest. "What the hell, Grif, try making some noise when you move, will you? You know, for a big guy you're surprisingly light on your feet."

"Yeah, yeah," Grif rolls his eyes. "Make another fat joke. Those never get old."

"What are you even doing in here?" Simmons asks, self-consciously pulling his bodysuit back up over his chest. His cheeks prickle with uncomfortable heat as Grif continues to scrutinise him, seemingly unaffected by the state of relative undress he's caught Simmons in, armour removed and piled neatly in a corner of the room. Grif's still in full body armour, except for his helmet, and Simmons feels at a distinct disadvantage. 

"I just came to check on you," Grif replies mildly. "Wanted to see if you were still moaning about this morning, you big baby."

"Fuck you, asshole," Simmons snaps, narrowing his eyes at Grif, "being at the bottom of the dogpile hurts."

"Aww," Grif says sarcastically, slipping into the room proper, door clicking shut behind him. "Like you didn't love it."

"Getting crushed under the weight of three other men?" Simmons raises an eyebrow. "I think you're getting me confused with Donut."

Grif smirks, lips twisting with amusement. "Yeah, but one of those men was Sarge. I got you close enough that actually kissing his arse was within your reach. You should be thanking me."

"Shut up!" Simmons says, flustered and suddenly aware of two things; that his voice has climbed up into the squeaky end of his register over the course of this conversation, and that for some reason he's been backing away from Grif, who has been steadily advancing towards him, until now his knees are hitting the edge of his bunk. "Anyway!" he says, hastily, "mission accomplished, you checked me out - I mean! Checked on me! You checked on me. You can leave now!"

Grif just keeps grinning and moves closer, movement almost predatory and a hungry look in his eyes that Simmons isn't used to seeing not actually being directed at food. "Maybe I came by to apologise."

"Huh?" Simmons feels as knocked of balance by Grif's words as he would be if Grif had instead tackled him yet again. "You're going to apologise?" he asks suspiciously, sensing a trap, "Really?"

"Sure," Grif says, moving close enough that their knees bump against each other, "after all, getting other people to climb on top of you was never the goal."

" _What?_ " Simmons eyes widen incredulously.

Grif's lips curve upwards into an even wider grin and his hand curls against the back of Simmon's neck, where the bodysuit ends. "For a smart guy, you can be really fucking dumb sometimes Simmons."

Simmons opens his mouth to respond to that, but then Grif's mouth is on his own, kissing him, tongue slick and wet and _inside Simmons' mouth whatthefuck?!_ and then Grif's pushing him down to the mattress, onto his back. For some reason Simmons goes along with it and finds himself under Grif's body for the second time that day.

"God," Grif pulls away from kissing Simmons for a moment, sitting back to strip his armour off, chucking his chestplate carelessly in a corner before moving on to the next piece, hands moving with a nimble quickness that Simmons would never have expected from their owner. "I can't believe that _I_ had to chase you. Seducing you has been a helluva lot of work."

"You call bodyslamming someone into the ground seduction?" Simmons asks, still trying to catch his breath and figure out exactly how they got to _here_.

"Hey," Grif shrugs as he peels his undersuit down, revealing the mismatched and scarred skin of his chest. "It worked didn't it?"

"Who says -" Simmons' words catch in his throat as Grif cuts him off, slipping a hand down his still partially unzipped bodysuit to grasp his dick, which apparently decided it was onboard with Grif's seduction without consulting him. " _Oh_." Simmons back arches in shock and sensation as Grif drags his thumb over the head of his cock.

"You were saying?" Grif asks, sounding unreasonably smug.

"Shut up," Simmons says, suddenly not caring how or why this is happening, reaching up to drag Grif down and kissing him with clumsy urgency. Grif laughs low against Simmons' lips, hand still moving over his cock at an infuriatingly slow pace, because _of course_ that fucker would be lazy even at a time like this.

Simmons growls, infuriated and bites at Grif's lower lip. "Can we pick up the speed a little here?" He tries not to sound too needy.

"I just don't want you coming too quick," Grif says, free hand twisting in Simmons short hair, tugging it until Simmons tilts his head and exposes his neck. "After all," Grif sucks lightly at Simmons' exposed pulse point, "it's not like you have much experience getting laid, right?"

"Fuck you," Simmons says, panting raggedly. He presses his thigh up against the hardness he feels pushed against him and is rewarded by Grif's low groan and the roll of his hips as he grinds against Simmons. "I'd like to come sometime _today._ "

"Oh, you're going to come alright," Grif promises, grip tightening infinitesimally around Simmons.

"Lets see you put your money where your mouth is then, asshole," Simmons says, goading, hands slipping down the scarred surface of Grif's back to grasp at his arse,fingers digging into the layer of fat that covers the muscle beneath, encouraging the thrust of Grif's hips.

"You're so getting it," Grif says darkly.

"That's the idea," Simmons retorts, before burying his face against Grif's shoulder as the other man picks up the pace, smothering his groans against Grif's skin. Grif's palm is warm and calloused, a little rough against his cock even with the pre-cum to coat it. Simmons' fingers tighten involuntarily against Grif's hips, at the slow drag of Grif's hand. Despite all his trash talking, he's really not going to last much longer.

A moment later and he comes apart, shaking and gasping and clutching at Grif, who holds him quietly through it, pressing a kiss against his neck softly as Simmons slowly pulls himself back together.

"You were saying?" Grif asks, voice amused but not unkind.

"Yeah, yeah," Simmons says, breathing steadying. He twists and rolls, grunting as he tries to flip Griff. "Your turn, asshole."

"Alright, alright," Grif says, laughter in his voice as he goes down willingly, eyes eager with anticipation. "Show me what you've got. Let's see if you're as much of a perfectionist in the bedroom as you are everywhere else."

"Oh, I'll show you," Simmons tells him as he straddles Grif, splaying one hand against Grif's chest for balance while his other hand reaches down to wrap around Grif's erection. He jerks Grif off with ruthless efficiency, keeping the pace and grip to just the right side of too fast and too tight. He can feel Grif trembling under him, feel the way his heart, _Simmons' heart_ , is beating so fast inside his chest. He watches the way Grif's eyes widen as he comes with a shudder, Simmons' name on his lips.

Simmons takes a moment to wipe his hand clean against his sheets, fastidious even now, then crawls down to lie on top of Grif, whose arms come up automatically to wrap around him. "Next time," he says in Grif's ear, voice low and intimate and with an edge of warning, "you don't have to tackle me to get me on my back."


End file.
